


Aftershock

by WBDMarsh



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Post-A Scandal in Belgravia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 23:02:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1582625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WBDMarsh/pseuds/WBDMarsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An epilogue to 'Sherlock: A Scandal in Belgravia' in which Sherlock and Irene Adler reach a compromise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftershock

“Run!”

I was on my feet in an instant and ran straight ahead into the darkness trusting completely in my savior.

I doubt I will ever know how long we fled or what countries we passed through. There were gunshots out of the darkness, shouts, motors engaging, then I was pulled into a ground car while both I and the car were moving at speed. What followed remains a blur. There were voices speaking in languages I didn’t recognize. Vehicles changed, seemingly at random. Light was blinding, absent, filtered. I was battered by rough handling and rougher transport, lulled into semi-consciousness when all motion became unaccountably smooth. Through it all Sherlock was there and, finally, there was also refuge.

Exhausted but with miraculously little physical harm, we had fallen onto the bed and were asleep without a second thought. When I awoke, Sherlock and any indication that he had ever been there was gone. In spite of my unbelievable rescue at his hands, he had abandoned me again. I promised myself that this time I would not give way to panic.

I had been unreasonably devastated by Sherlock’s cruelty the night he had broken my pass code and handed my camera phone to Mycroft. He had been correct that sentiment was my undoing. I had given my heart to a monster. In my anguish I had begged him for mercy and he had turned away. Mycroft made no move to detain me as I stumbled from the townhouse with no protection and uncertain resources. I foolishly attempted to contact Jim Moriarty even though I knew I was no longer of use to him. All I accomplished was to alert him to my plight and I realized immediately my life expectancy was now severely limited. I fled London at once, straight into the clutches of the terrorist cell whose plans my information had foiled, ending at their desert camp to face a cruel execution. Moriarty’s reach is long.

Yet somehow Sherlock had come after me, found me, saved me, brought me to this place, and now he was gone. I could not even focus, much less think.

The fact that I was filthy and bathing facilities were available made me shed my now tattered clothing and enter the shower regardless of the danger this could entail. I was longing to be clean once again and hoped when that was accomplished my mind would be clear as well. Over the running water I heard the outer room door open and froze, listening intently as soft footsteps approached. A figure and a flutter of material appeared in the open doorway. 

“You may be needing this.” Sherlock’s voice. “When you are ready I have breakfast of sorts.”

Weak with relief, I managed to take the garment from his hand and utter a garbled "thank you".

When I emerged from the bath wrapped in the dressing gown he had supplied, an eclectic meal had been laid out on the small table.

“You needn’t wait,” he said waving at the food as he headed into the bathroom. “I didn’t. No need to worry; we are safe here for the present.”

Sometime later, both of us clean, fed, and our minor medical needs attended to, but still exhausted from our ordeal, we were again overcome by sleep. Sherlock settled beside me on the bed quite comfortably and unselfconsciously. I was mildly surprised and at the same time irrationally soothed by his presence.

It was evening when we woke. In his foray earlier that day Sherlock had obtained both food and the clothing necessary for our reappearance outside the hotel room. Not yet ready to face the world, I had resumed the dressing gown and curled up with a cup of tea on the sofa which was the only comfortable seating available. I watched him languidly as he also donned a robe and made a cup of tea in the microwave.

“I suppose you have questions,” he said as he sat down beside me. “Regrettably I am not at liberty to supply many answers. Of course you understand that my presence here never happened. It will be imperative that we leave within the very near future, and not in company.”

“Where is here?” I asked. “Somewhere in Eastern Europe, I assume. Bulgaria?”

“Using your brain again, I see. Good. That should eliminate some of the difficulties, if you can manage to keep it up. I have arranged for a complete set of travel documents to be delivered to the front desk for a woman fitting your description, but under an assumed name. There will also be train passes to Paris where you will be met and provided with airline tickets to New York. You have fluent French, so should the need arise you will be able to manage. I can not help you further.”

I had never spoken French in his presence, but his knowing I could did not surprise me. “That is most generous. I understand the conditions and assure you that I am very grateful. For all that you have done for me.” 

I felt tears forming in my eyes and struggled for control. Sherlock was staring at me, staring at me the same way he had at Baker Street when I had taken refuge in his flat and started the chain of events that led to this moment. It was obvious he was recalling the same memory. With considerable effort I matched him stare for stare. 

“The offer stands” I said as steadily as I could manage.

That inscrutable stare continued for a few moments before he stood and set down the cup. He pressed his palms together under his chin and paced somewhat slowly back and forth to the extent possible in the small room. To my utter astonishment he paused before me, held out a hand and raised me to my feet. A small smile that did not seem to reach his eyes, a quick glance at the table, then:

“It isn’t the desk at 221B Baker Street, but perhaps it will serve?”

Never before had I exerted so much effort to steel my emotions. I knew his abilities. In near desperation I untied the belt of my dressing gown and dropped it off my shoulders to the floor. In my battle dress I began to regain some composure. I am a dominatrix. I am used to being in control, recent events being the exception. I also had the advantage of experience, having been assured by word and action that Sherlock was a virgin.

Once again taking my hand, he led me to the table and turned my back to it.

“Do not move” he said. It was a command. 

I watched as he went to the bed and returned with the duvet which he folded and placed behind me on the table. I felt the back of his hand against the side of my neck, felt it slide around under my chin to rest palm down on my shoulder as he moved in front of me. It was gently done and totally unexpected. He made no further move and just stood there looking at my face as I looked back.

A minute passed. Then, exerting some force, I reached out to untie the loosely wrapped belt of his robe intending to grasp the front and pull the edges together behind him, immobilizing his arms at least temporarily and letting him feel my body against his. I did undo the belt, but before I could carry the movement any further his hands were tight on my wrists and they were being held behind my own back. I could not suppress a small gasp as some bruise or other was affected by his action.

Move, counter move. He had anticipated. More than that, he had analyzed my methods and used a gentle action to put me off guard. I could see it was to be a near equal contest. It was an even wager who would prove to be the stronger. 

Sherlock was pressed against me as he held my wrists, but his robe was inhibiting contact. I could however discern that he was displaying little or no arousal. Impasse. 

Looking up straight into his eyes I said “We could just wrestle. Competition rules.”

Again that small smile. With a sure movement his hands were under my buttocks and I was lifted onto the table. When he released my wrists I had instinctively grasped his waist for balance. I felt the twist of his hips as he moved my legs apart and nestled his body between them; the robe was no longer in the way. 

He lowered his head and spoke softly in my ear. “I had not intended this to be a contest. I had hoped you did not as well.” I could feel his breath on my neck, the softness of his lips as he spoke.

His hands moved along my back, pulling me closer. With perfect clarity I knew how much I wanted this, that I had wanted it ever since seeing the newspaper photograph of him in that funny hat. Involuntarily my body was responding in a way I did not remember having experienced before with a man, but I recognized the strength of my arousal. As though he knew my every thought, knew what I was feeling, knew that I would surrender to him, I felt his manhood begin to rise. 

He moved back slightly and I looked up into his face. When I saw his expression, I was suddenly unsure of him. He did not look like a man sexually aroused but more like an observer studying his subject. It was a fleeting impression and, if the expression had been there at all, it was quickly replaced with a wry one, which was not at all reassuring. I realized a man such as he would find it very difficult to give in to sensations so seldom, if ever, allowed to surface. Yet he displayed no indication of insecurity or self-consciousness as I would have expected a virgin might, all his actions being sure and deliberate. Suddenly I also realized I might be out of my depth. I did not know what he would like. He had felt the blows from my riding crop and had not been fazed. Of course, he had been drugged at the time.

My confusion must have been clear to someone with his powers of observation. As was my unmistakable arousal. He had been quite clear and correct in his deductions regarding my reaction to him in the past; there was no reason to believe he would fail now.

His hands moved around my hips to rest with his thumbs caressing the inside of my thighs. My hands, now on his shoulders, tightened in response as did the muscles in my abdomen. 

In that near monotone he used professionally, he said “I may need a little help.” It was a statement of fact without any hint of embarrassment. His hands moved down my legs to stop just above my knees. He waited.

I was aching. Forcing myself not to hurry, I began moving my hands along his shoulders, his chest, letting him feel my nails on his back as I traveled down his body, changing to a softer touch as I moved toward his groin. I could feel the tension in him and could tell he was trying hard to relax. Too hard. His hands tightened painfully on my legs when I touched him. I stopped moving, leaned into his chest and tried to breath slowly and evenly, holding him gently. His arms wrapped around me and after a little while I felt his chin resting on my head. Some of the nervous tension left him on a deep breath. I began massaging him firmly but gently. He tensed briefly, then relaxed into my touch. I could feel him beginning to respond as I increased pressure and changed the direction of movement. 

As though a switch had been thrown I felt him harden and his body almost throb. His erection was so sudden and strong that I was unprepared and must have twitched. He took my arms and eased me back onto the table. Spreading my legs wide he moved in and positioned himself, but did not penetrate. Instead he poised just at the edge, pushing gently but not enough to enter. In seconds I had closed my eyes and moaned. Someone said “please.” My back arched slightly and I felt the fullness of him inside me as he thrust forward. Inexplicably, Sherlock now seemed to have complete command of himself. He played my body like he did his violin, matching his every movement to my need. When the peak came, his release followed mine an instant later. 

My heart was pounding, I was breathing heavily and my eyes were closed. I could feel him still inside me, flaccid and spent. I heard his breathing and could feel his whole body trembling. Opening my eyes I looked straight up into his face which wore a most peculiar expression of shock mingled with fatigue.

“I need a cigarette,” he said.

A bit later we were again settled on the sofa with fresh cups of tea, munching on biscuits. 

In quite a matter-of-fact way Sherlock said “Your train leaves at noon tomorrow.” 

“Will I ever see you again?” I asked.

“Unlikely. You must under no circumstances return to England. Your best protection now is a new identity and a new life in America. I would advise you not to misbehave, but I know such good advice is wasted.”

“A woman can never have too much fun.”

To my amazement he stood, took my hands and led me to the bed. ”Now that the experiment has been successful . . . oh, come now. No need to pretend you are indignant, you knew all along. I needed data and you were more than willing to oblige. We both achieved an objective.” 

“You were a virgin.” 

“Yes.”

“You demonstrated astonishing skill for a beginner.”

“As I told you before, the chemistry of love is quite simple, however the practical application did require more of my professional skills than I anticipated. It was also quite intriguing.” He smiled. This time it shone from his eyes. “I’m inclined to experiment further while the opportunity exists.”

For the first time I felt his kiss. 

His smile softened but lost none of its warmth. “Please” he said quietly.

Much later, even as my eyes grew unbearably heavy, I could see that he had drifted into a deep and peaceful sleep. The sense of wonder I felt had little to do with sex, not with Sherlock’s sexual awaking or what I had discovered about myself this incredible night. We had both changed, and I knew why. But like so much in our lives it had come too late.

When I awoke, Sherlock was gone and the bed was cold. I showered and dressed in the clothing he had provided. They fit very well, but then he knew my measurements, and suited me in an unobtrusive way. In the pocket of the coat I found a slip of paper. On it he had written my new name.


End file.
